


Sleepless Nights

by deadlydean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Dean Winchester - Freeform, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, One Shot, Supernatural - Freeform, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 16:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6618313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlydean/pseuds/deadlydean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reader has a tough time falling asleep and breaks down, Dean comforts her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So I had this problem a while back and sometimes it still happens and i just hate this anxious thing and anxiety in general so here we are. Hope you like it!

The night had it out for you. It was 3am and you were wide awake, your body showing no signs of sleep while you knew you were tired as you ever were. Your heartrate too high, your mind too occupied, you were tossing and turning and you felt a familiar ache in your head that you knew came from your sleep deprived state. 

You tried to slow your breathing, but there didn’t seem to be enough room in your chest to take a deep breath and your air supply ran short the second you tried to make a long exhale. You hated these nights, because they came out of nowhere and as luck would have it, with the worst timing possible. Tomorrow, or actually in a few hours, Sam, Dean and you would leave for a case and it was going to be tough. You all went to bed early tonight so you would be well-rested for a long hunt. Meanwhile, you were still awake, wide eyed, clutching your wrist to keep track of your racing pulse. 

Your mind would play tricks on you on nights like this. The longer it took for your heart to slow down, the more paranoid you got that it would at one point give out. Thoughts racing from one bad scenario to the other and frankly, it only made things worse. While in reality, there was nothing wrong, you were working yourself up and you knew it. 

You didn’t dare move a muscle and felt the thumps of your heart slow down in your chest and disappear. As unsettling as it was to feel your heart beat in your chest, you felt a white-hot wave of fright wash over you as the thumps slowly faded away and you gripped your pulse tighter to make sure it wasn’t slowing down to a complete stop. To your relief and dismay, your pulse, yet again, quickened. As you lay there, almost crying, you knew you needed distraction. Getting out of bed would help, you thought.  
You sighed in defeat, throwing your duvet aside and sitting up in bed. Your heart increasing in rate even more and you sat there for a moment, afraid it would actually burst if you stood up. You let your face down in your hands, your clammy fingers wiping cold sweat of your brow. Okay, Y/N. You tried to coax yourself. Nothing’s wrong, you’re just freaking yourself out, you just got to get up, is all. 

After a minute of softly composing yourself, you got up from the bed as slowly as you possibly could. Silently humming the melody of your favourite song to distract your mind.  
The bunker was awfully quiet as you made your way to the kitchen. Only the slow shuffle of your socks over the floor sounded through the hallway together with the soft hum of your voice.  
Walking always worked and you already felt a bit better when you set foot on the kitchen floor. You felt yourself tiring again, but you knew this was not a guarantee for sleep so you were going to do what Dean did when he needed a good night in. Have whiskey. 

You opened the cabinet over the counter and took out a glass before you opened the cabinet next to it to reach for the bottle. You screwed off the cap, which then slid to the other end of the counter. You were too tired to care and poured yourself a drink. You shuddered slightly after you downed the glass and quickly poured yourself a new one. That should do it, you thought as you felt your head weigh down a bit already. 

Looking for the cap of the bottle, you saw the black thing lying on the other side of the counter. Sighing you leaned over and successfully grabbed it, but as you came back up you felt something hit your elbow, followed by a loud shattering noise of breaking glass. You gasped, looking over your shoulder to see brown liquid spreading over the tile floor. You felt your socks moisten as the cold whiskey seeped around your feet and made small trails down the path next to the counter. 

It would take so long to clean this all up and all you wanted was to go to bed. Your head and eyelids were heavy and your limbs felt like they were coated in cement. “Fuck,” you whispered quietly to yourself. “I just want to go to bed,” you softly whimpered. Looking down at the mess on the floor you slumped down against the kitchens cabinet. Cringing at the feeling of wet socks on your feet, you pulled your knees to your chest and let your head sink forward in your hands rubbing your eyes as they started to water. A small sob escaped from your lips. Great, now I’m crying, could this night get any worse? You mentally smacked yourself against the head when merely seconds after that you heard footsteps nearing the kitchen.  
The deep yawn told you it was Dean who was about to round the corner. 

“What’s going on ‘ere, I heard something break,” he said sleepily. The moment he saw the kitchen, though, he abruptly stopped walking to assess the situation. His eyes shifted from the glass on the counter to the broken bottle in the pool of whiskey on the floor, to you, propped up against a cupboard, staring at him with sad, bloodshot eyes. 

His expression showed a slight hint of worry before he made his way towards you. He carefully manoeuvred around the splinters and pieces on the ground, his bare feet occasionally dipping in the spilled whiskey before he hunched down before you. “You okay? Did you step on the glass?” You shook your head slowly. He scrunched his nose up as the strong scent of the whiskey hit him. “Trouble sleeping?” He asked, an understanding expression in his features. You nodded and sighed. Dean moved and you thought he was going to get up, but instead he stayed low and sat himself on down the floor next to you, also leaning against the cupboard. 

“Is it the same thing that kept you up all the time a couple of months back?” he turned his head towards you. “Yeah,” you softly answered. But it was over, your breathing hitched a bit and you started rambling. “I know it’s partly in my head and that it’s nothing and I’m just supposed to calm down, but I can’t think straight and it’s frightening and it feels like my heart’s beating out of my chest,” you feel a familiar sting in your eyes and a lump in your throat. “Woah, hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay,” You feel his hand on your shoulder, pushing you against his chest. “Shit, Dean, I’m sorry. I’m just so tired and I just want to sleep,” you cried into his shirt. 

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart” he repeated. His hand kept soothingly rubbing up and down your arm as he brought his other hand to your head and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. He leaned down a bit to plant a kiss in top of your head. “It’s just stress, remember?” You calmed down a bit, nodding slightly. “You had a rough week and it all piles up on one big heap till it comes out like this. you’re okay,” You nodded again, “I know,” you said. 

You sat still for a while sobbing against the fabric of his T-shirt, Dean still softly stroking your arm. It took you a couple of minutes to calm yourself down. Dean was patient, knowing that sometimes you just had to let it out. After a while you had gone completely silent against his chest. Your breathing was finally slow and steady, matching Dean’s. He knew you were composed enough to talk again and he took a deep breath before finally speaking. “Do you want to sleep in my room tonight?” He asked, his hand patting your knee softly. He stroked his hand over your hair. “Y/N?” He looked down and gently moved your head up only to see your closed eyes and feel your slow and even breathing. A low chuckle escaped his lips as he looked down at your sleeping form. 

With a swift movement he laid you back against the cupboard to get back up his feet before sliding an arm underneath your knees and gently hoisting you up to his chest. With some trouble manoeuvring around the broken glass on the floor, he made it out of the kitchen, leaving a short trail of wet footsteps behind him. 

The door to his room was still open and he laid you down on the side he slept before. He pulled your socks that were wet with spilled whiskey off your feet. The sheets were still pushed back and he draped them over you. You moved slightly and your eyes fluttered a bit as a murmur about cleaning whiskey in the kitchen escaped your lips. A small grin played on Deans features and he leaned down to place his lips on your forehead. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he whispered.

When Dean came back into the room 30 minutes later, the kitchen disposed of sharp splinters and free from wet, sticky floors, he was glad to see you were still sleeping soundly. Breathing softly, curled up in his blankets. He yawned, walking over to his side of the bed. Tired as well at 4 in the morning, he lifted the covers and laid down beside you.


End file.
